Stampede at Rattlesnake Pass

by Clay More

  "I’m going to try and change all that," he mused to himself. Then with a grin: "I’ll take her away from all that care."

  But as he rode up the main Rocking H trail towards the ranch-house he noticed that there seemed to be something odd about the place. There were men going about their business, but he surely didn’t recognize them all. He knew virtually all of the cowhands in the area, but a couple of these were vaqueros from south of the border. A voice inside his head told him that preparations were being made for a trail drive. It was an impression confirmed by Cookie O’Toole, the grizzled old Rocking H grub-wrangler, who had once worked on a drive for Jeb. He was busily stocking up a chuck wagon with barrels, cooking utensils, and supplies of sourdough, pork belly, beans, and bags of coffee.

  "Odd time to be mounting a drive, Cookie," Jeb commented as he drew to a halt by the wagon.

  "Needs must, I reckon," replied Cookie, removing a worn old Confederate cap and wiping his brow with the back of a ham-like forearm. "Boss man says we have to start chasing sheep instead of critters if we want to stave the bank thieves off." And he turned his head and spat contemptuously in the dust.

  Jeb dismounted and produced a couple of cigars from his vest. He proffered one to Cookie and clipped the other between his lips. "Sheep in this area? That may not be popular with some of Saul’s neighboring ranchers. Tell me more."

  Over their cigars the old cook told as much as he knew, ever since the day of the bushwhacking, which had so shocked and horrified the territory. He told him all that he himself had been told by Bill Coburn and Johnnie Parker without any feeling of disloyalty, for his past dealings with Jeb Jackson had always shown him to be a straight-shooter, a man you could trust.

  At last Jeb took a final puff on his cigar and ground the butt out under the heel of an expensive boot. "I sure wish you luck, Cookie. Reckon I best go and have a chat with Saul. Maybe I could help out as one neighbor to another."

  A few moments later as he tied up to the hitching post, then mounted the steps to the main door of the ranch-house Jeb Jackson allowed himself a half smile.

  So they were finding it all a bit difficult? That was good, he thought. At least it would be a good time to put forward any proposition he might have.

  He tapped on the door and waited for the sound of feet crossing the hall towards the door. As he saw the door handle move he cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring flowers. His mouth creased into a smile as the door opened and he felt his heart speed up at the sight of the woman he wanted to be his wife. Then it skipped a beat when she smiled back – a polite smile, but without any warmth. He knew it was going to be hard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Johnnie Parker had been blessed with high good humor, which was just as well, he thought, considering that he was riding drag to a two thousand head drive. He grinned to himself behind his bandana, which was pulled up over his face leaving only a narrow slit between it and his turned down Stetson for him to see out of.

  "Liars, the whole danged lot of them," he announced to the back of the bay’s head. "If I had my way I would take every one of those darned Eastern dime novelists and make them walk behind a herd like this, instead of spreading lies about the romance of riding the range. All you get is dust, dry eyes, and wagonloads of dung."

  And as he thought about how thirsty he was his mind jumped ahead with joyous anticipation to the delight of savoring the first cup of Arbuckle’s coffee that Cookie would have ready for them when they eventually bedded the herd down for the night. It was after mid-afternoon and as usual at this time Cookie had gone on ahead of the herd to find a suitable spot to have their meal ready when bed-down time came.

  They were on the third day out from the ranch and had made a steady fifteen miles per day along the trail. Good open land it was, too, so that the long procession could be coaxed along without feeling too nervous, which was always a potential problem when there were a few frolicsome steers in the bunch.

  "We’ve gone well, feller," Johnnie informed the bay. "We should get to Silver City tomorrow, then you and me is going to wet our whistles real well. You with some of that sweet Silver City water, and me with a bucket of cold beer from the Busted Flush Saloon." He chuckled behind his bandana. "And Cookie will probably sit himself in some corner with that chimney stack pipe of his and drink a couple of glasses of milk, like he always does. The old fool thinks we all believe that he doesn’t drink hard liquor, but we’ve all seen him lace his milk and his coffee with good red eye tonsil paint."

  He turned his attention to the undulating drag end of the herd, where all the footsore steers, the infants, and the lazy critters gravitated to. He kicked his heels and urged the bay towards a couple of stragglers, coaxing them to speed up with a couple of flicks of his rope.

  "What do you think of that Bill Coburn, eh feller? Telling me that I had promotion from wrangler to drag rider." He turned and waved to the young Mexican vaquero who was trailing about a couple of hundred yards back with the remuda. "Hey, Emilio, keep up there or you’ll miss out on supper."

  The young Mexican waved back, although Johnnie doubted whether he had actually heard him. He turned his attention back to the herd that loomed ahead of him half hidden in the cloud of sand and dust that eight thousand hooves were kicking up. Screwing his eyes up he could dimly see the two flank riders about a third of the way up the herd, one on each side, and another third of the way he made out the two swing men. All of them were moving up and down the sides, blocking critters from cutting loose or just meandering away from the main body.

  "Old Bill did well to hire these fellers," Johnnie informed his bay. "They all seem to know their stuff and there is no way we could have managed with just the five Rocking H crew. Two of them don’t have much sense of humor, but hell – neither does Cookie."

  In the far distance at the head of the herd he could just make out Bill Coburn’s characteristic riding posture as he and Skeeter Carson rode point on each shoulder of the herd. He watched as Bill moved inwards, simultaneously signaling for Skeeter to move outwards to begin turning the herd to the right in the direction of the Pintos foothills.

  "Looks like we’re heading towards Rattlesnake Pass, feller," he informed his disinterested bay. "It’s a dismal rocky place that I can’t say I cotton to. Especially if there really are rattlers around there. Last thing we want is for some snake to spook these critters." And with a shiver he turned his mind to more attractive thoughts.

  The mental image of Elly Horrocks appeared in his mind, just as she was a few days before, naked and beautiful as ever as they made love in her big brass bed. And she had certainly been passionate, almost violent in her love-making, like a wild animal. Then afterwards, as they lay spent together she had confessed that she had been angry.

  "It was that man Jeb Jackson. He had the audacity to come calling on us – on Saul to ask him to put in a good word with me." Johnnie grinned as he recalled her pretty face flush with pique. "He . . . he’s so old! Oh, Johnnie, we need to get away together!" she exclaimed.

  "Soon, Elly," he mused to the horse’s head in front of him, as he pulled his bandana up even further to protect his face. "Soon I’ll be back and we can start making plans."

  Bill Coburn was worried; a natural enough state of mind for any trail boss. After all, he had a heavy burden of responsibility on his shoulders. If the Rocking H ranch was to survive he had to get the best price he could at Silver City and get back to the ranch pronto. And until they got there he had the responsibility for two thousand head of beeves and eight men, all of which necessitated that he be here, there and everywhere.

  "Good man, that Skeeter," he mused to himself once they had successfully turned the herd in the direction of Rattlesnake Pass.

  He signaled to Skeeter over the heads of the herd using the pre-arranged set of hand signals that they had agreed upon to indicate that he was going to ride on ahead to meet up with Cookie. But before he actually did so he wheeled his big stallion around and repeated th
e hand signals to Curlie Shanks, the swing rider on the same side of the herd, so that he could ride up the string to cover Bill’s point position.

  "Hope the old fool hasn’t gone too far," he said to himself as he set off at a gentle trot so as not to spook any potentially nervous critters at the front.

  Once he had put some distance between himself and the head of the herd he let the stallion have its head as he made his way through the pass that threaded its way through the Pintos. It was a sheer walled, U-shaped canyon renowned, possibly more in legend than in fact, for its regular population of rattlesnakes. Countless trails led off it into a maze of canyons.

  At the thought of the name Bill guffawed. "The whole blamed territory has its god-given share of rattlers, right enough – but a man could live his life here without seeing any, on account of them liking human company less than we like them and their tell-tale noise."

  The ruts of the chuck-wagon showed clearly in the semi-desert floor of the canyon, confirming that Cookie had passed through all right.

  "Which just goes to show that a hot chuck-wagon driven by a whiskey-sodden cook makes a whole lot better time than a parcel of critters driven by eight sober men," he joked to himself.

  Then as he negotiated the U-bend of the pass he saw the chuck-wagon some distance ahead, already unhitched on a slight rise.

  "Cookie, you sensible old buzzard," he said aloud. "There isn’t any sense in pitching camp on ground where the herd is going to bed down. Looks like you haven’t had too much rot-gut yet, anyhow."

  And he noticed the ribbon of smoke rising from the fire that Cookie had already started in preparation for the evening meal. He prodded his horse’s flanks with his heels and rode to within about fifty yards before he slowed down to a trot.

  As he approached he noticed the extra horse beyond the chuck-wagon, then he saw that the old cook was not alone. A muscle twitched in his back and he tensed involuntarily as he recognized the gruff tone that belonged to a puncher who had worked for the Rocking H until Ben Horrocks had fired him the previous year, on his recommendation.

  "Well, lookie here – it’s the boss man, Bill Coburn," came the voice. "Come for some of your coffee, I expect, Cookie."

  "What are you doing here, Fleming?" Bill queried suspiciously.

  Hog Fleming was a fat-cheeked man with a slightly porcine air about him. He smiled obsequiously as he swirled coffee in a tin cup. "Hey, what’s up, Bill? You don’t sound too friendly to a former Rocking H man." Then the smile faded completely. "But then you never were very friendly, were you. Got me fired for no good reason, didn’t you."

  "I asked what you're doing here?" Bill repeated. "I didn’t like you being around the Rocking H and I sure don’t like seeing you here on my trail drive."

  "Free country, Bill. I just happened to meet up with my old friend Cookie here and he offered me a coffee."

  "No coffee for you, Fleming. This may be a free country but as far as you're concerned this chuck-wagon is Rocking H property and you are not welcome. Now git!"

  Hog Fleming looked down at the tin coffee cup in his hand. "Now that is plum bad mannered, Coburn. I can’t abide bad manners."

  Cookie had been standing with a coffee cup of his own in his hand and his chimney pipe in his mouth. He pulled the pipe out and tapped Hog Fleming on the shoulder. "Easy there, Hog. Bill here is the boss and you had better – "

  He never finished. There was the explosion of a gunshot and Cookie staggered backwards. He looked down in disbelief at the spreading patch of crimson on the front of his vest.

  "Hog, what the - ?" He slowly fell forward into the dust.

  Bill Coburn had watched him fall with a look of shock and disbelief. Then realization dawned on him as he saw the smoking gun in Hog Fleming’s hand. A desire for retribution coupled with sheer self-preservation sent his hand flying towards his own gun. For a working ranch foreman he had a relatively fast draw, but desperation made him faster. He cleared leather faster than he had ever done before – only to realize that even that had not been fast enough.

  He felt a thud in his belly, immediately followed by a feeling of intense heat, as if he had been skewered by a red-hot poker. And in that instant he knew that he was a dead man.

  Despite the agony he managed to raise his gun in the direction of his killer and even managed to draw back the hammer, intent on taking the bastard with him.

  But another bullet smashed into his brain, killing him instantly and robbing him of the satisfaction of knowing that as his body convulsed, his hand had squeezed off the trigger and blown off the lobe of Hog Fleming’s left ear.

  * * *

  Rubal Cage liked to dress in black, because he felt it suited his moods and the image that he wanted to project. Men were wary of black haired hombres in black rig, he believed. He felt it gave them a sense that he was a man who could deal out death. Indeed, he was a man full of hate. It wasn’t so much that life had dealt him a bad hand of cards, more the fact that he was more sensitive and had a longer memory than most folks. Any slight against him was stored up and locked away until he saw a way of getting even. Minor slights merited a beating of some sort and major ones usually deserved death, in his view.

  Having been fired from the Double J ranch was definitely a major slight in his mind. He was nurturing the hate he felt towards the rancher, using it even to generate the emotion he needed to carry out his work.

  "Your time will come soon enough, you bastard!" he cursed as he pictured how the rancher would meet his maker - before his time. And with murder in his heart he stroked the butt-plate of his Winchester .73 and signaled to the others to start closing in on the herd up ahead.

  "Yes sir, until then we’ll have a little practice!" he said to himself, his mouth drawing into a thin cruel curve.

  Emilio Sanchez's mind was not on his job. Looking after the string of highly strung cow ponies was not his idea of what a vaquero was all about. To even ride drag would have suited him, but he was aware that beggars could not be choosers. And ever since his father had died and Emilio had been forced to fend for his mother and his nine sisters there had been times when begging was not far off. Although he was hardly able to ride, he had been grateful to Ramirez for lying to the gringo ramrod about him being an experienced vaquero, which was his actual ambition.

  As usual when times were hard Emilio retreated into the land of make believe. Instead of a humble wrangler he had a picture of himself as a dangerous desperado masquerading as a wrangler in order to gain the trust of a wealthy rancher, so that he could make the lovely daughter fall in love with him, just like in the dime novels that he so loved to read.

  So distracted was he with his own posturing as he played the part in his own imagined dime novel that he did not hear the soft approach of a rider behind him. When he did hear, he turned in the saddle, his usual friendly smile flashing across his youthful visage.

  It was wiped away the instant that he felt a thud in his chest and felt the searing agony of the blade, tossed from a distance of twenty feet, as it punctured his ribcage and found his heart.

  "No, señor!" he gasped, staring at this nameless killer. "I have a mother! I have sisters. I am – "

  His pony trotted after the retreating herd as Emilio Sanchez slid from the saddle to fall dead in the sand.

  Rubal Cage had chosen his men well. All of them had killed before, without hesitation and without any lasting impression on their consciences. Men after his own heart, which of course made them extra dangerous because they would undoubtedly betray their own mother – or even worse – betray him, if the price or the need was right. Yet while they saw the advantage in it they were all happy to follow his orders to the letter – as they had done in surreptitiously surrounding the herd and the riders driving it.

  He himself had taken out the wrangler kid while they had scattered to easily outflank the herd and cowboys by using the stacks and natural cover provided by saguaro and scrub-oak thickets to conceal their advance. Thus far it had
all gone according to plan, the aim being to get into position before the herd turned into Rattlesnake Pass.

  Rubal Cage recognized the drag rider by the way he sat his horse as well as by the clothes he wore. He recognized him because he was already aware that he had a special relationship with the Horrocks girl, who he himself had designs on. It was for that reason that he didn’t simply backshoot the kid, but rode to within hailing distance above the noise of the advancing herd.

  "Put your hands up and turn around real slow, cowboy!" he barked out.

  Johnnie Parker stiffened in the saddle when he heard the words. Shrewd enough to realize that death was possible if he acted otherwise, he turned his head slowly, his hands raised above his head.

  "That you, Cage?" he queried, squinting over the bandana that was still above his nose. "What the hell are you doing here – with a gun?"

  "Come visiting, what you think," replied Rubal Cage. "Wanted to pass on my respects to the dead."

  Johnnie screwed his eyes even more. "The dead? Who’s dead?"

  "You!" snapped Rubal Cage. "I just wanted you to know that your girl will be taken care of."

  Johnnie’s eyes blazed and he went for his gun. But just as Bill Coburn had failed to draw fast enough, so Johnnie was no match for a man with his gun already drawn and aimed. Rubal Cage’s gun spat two bullets in rapid succession, each scoring a hit on Johnnie’s chest, so powerful that he was thrown backwards to fall over the horse’s rump into the sand.

  "I’ll take care of her real well," said Cage as he holstered his sidearm and rode past the sprawled body. "I promise."

  In the distance he fancied that he heard a succession of shots from different locations about the herd.

  Then there was a deafening cacophony of bellowing and moaning from the herd. Rubal Cage pulled out his Winchester .73 from its scabbard and let off several shots above the heads of the rear critters. He grinned as an undulating motion began from the rear, gaining momentum until the whole herd was racing forward. Two thousand head of cattle rushed headlong towards Rattlesnake Pass.